PART FOUR

Moscow, August 1991

Ambassador Stephen Metcalfe was dreading this meeting, more than he had ever dreaded any meeting in his life. He touched the pistol concealed in his jacket pocket, the steel cold against his fingers. As he did so, he remembered his old Russian friend’s words: Nobody but you can get close to him. He’s better protected than I am. Only you can get to him.

With his old friend at his side and flanked by a detail of uniformed guards, Metcalfe walked down the still, dark hallway. They were inside the Kremlin, in the epicenter of Soviet power, a place Metcalfe had visited dozens of times. But there were many buildings within the walled fortress called the Kremlin, and Metcalfe had not been in this particular building before. This building, which housed the Presidium of the Supreme Soviet, was located in the northeast corner of the Kremlin complex. It was in this neoclassical columned building that the head of the Soviet secret police, Lavrenti Beria, was arrested in 1953 after attempting a coup d’etat after the death of Stalin.

Fitting, thought Metcalfe grimly.

Here, in this very building, is the office of the man most Moscow insiders consider to be the most powerful in all of the Soviet Union, more powerful even than Gorbachev-or rather, more powerful than Gorbachev used to be.

A quiet man of unassuming demeanor named Stepan Menilov. A man Metcalfe had never met but had only heard of. Menilov was the power behind the throne, a career apparatchik who held levers of power most didn’t even know existed. He did more than hold the levers of power, however; he was said to play them like a great church organ. Within his shadowy dominion, he wielded his baton of influence, orchestrating the complex interplay of instruments with the adroitness of a virtuoso. He was the Conductor. The Oirizhor.

Menilov was the Secretary of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union and the Deputy Chairman of the all-powerful Defense Council-a body that oversaw the KGB, the Foreign Ministry, the Defense Ministry,

and the Interior Ministry. The chairman was Gorbachev-but he was now indisposed, a prisoner in his lavish seaside villa in the Crimea.

Now Stepan Menifov was in charge.

Metcalfe’s old friend had briefed him on Stepan Menilov. He was fifty-seven years old, a hard-liner and weapons expert who had been raised by his great-grandmother, and then an uncle, in a tiny village in the Kuznetsk Basin, and had quickly climbed the ladder of Soviet industry, had become the Central Committee Secretary in charge of the military-industrial complex, had been awarded the Lenin Prize for his faithful service to his country.

But what Metcalfe had not been prepared for, when the door to Menilov’s office suite swung open and the man himself emerged, was the man’s appearance. He was tall, rangy, and extraordinarily handsome-not at all the way one expected a behind-the-scenes operator to look. He moved with an unusual grace and poise, shook Metcalfe’s hand firmly. He asked the general to remain in his outer office. He would speak only to the American.

As he took his seat facing the Dirizhoi’s large, ornately carved mahogany desk, Metcalfe found himself, uncharacteristically, at a loss for words. Prominently placed atop the desk, he noticed, was the black case that held the Soviet nuclear launch codes.

“Well, well, well,” said Stepan Menilov. “The legendary Stephen Metcalfe. An emissary from the White House, above reproach, above partisan politics. Carrying a message, I have no doubt, from the Oval Office. A message that can later be disavowed if need be. A conversation that can be denied. It’s quite clever, really this displays a level of subtlety that I had not thought you Americans were capable of.” He spread his hands as he leaned back in his high-backed chair. “Nevertheless, I will listen to what you have to say. But let me first warn you: I will do no more than listen.”

“That’s all I ask. But I’m not here on behalf of the White House. My mission is not official in any sense. I simply want to speak very directly, and in the strictest confidence, to the only man who has the power to stop the madness.”

“Madness?” said Menilov curtly. “What you’re seeing in Moscow today is an end to the madness, finally. A return to stability.”

“An end to reform, you mean. An end to the remarkable changes that Gorbachev was bringing about.”

“Too much change is dangerous. It brings only chaos.”

“Change can indeed be dangerous,” Metcalfe said. “But in the case of your great nation, by far the most dangerous thing would be not to change. You never want to return to the terrible old days of the dictatorship. I’ve seen the days of Stalin; I’ve seen the terror. They must never be allowed to come back.”

“Ambassador Metcalfe, you are a great man in your own country. You are a lion of the American Establishment, which is the only reason I’ve agreed to see you. But you cannot presume to tell us how to conduct our affairs.”

“I agree. But I can tell you what the consequences will be of this coup d’etat that you and the others are leading.”

Stepan Menilov arched his brows in that peculiar expression of skepticism and defiance so familiar to Metcalfe. “Is that a threat, Mr. Ambassador?”

“Not at all. It’s a prediction, a warning. We are talking about going back to an arms race that has already broken your country. The deaths of hundreds of thousands of your countrymen in proxy civil wars around the globe. Perhaps even nuclear disaster. I can guarantee you that Washington will do everything in its power to shut you down.”

“Really,” said the Conductor coldly.

“Really. You will be isolated. Trade, which you so desperately need, will plummet. Grain sales will end. Your people will starve, and the unrest that will result will plunge Russia into a turmoil you cannot imagine. I have just spoken with the national security adviser to the President of the United States, so although I’m not here on any official mission, I do speak with authority, let me assure you of that.”

The Dirizhor sat forward and placed his hands atop his desk. “If America thinks it can exploit a moment of disarray in the Soviet leadership to threaten us, you are making a grave error. The very instant you make any move against us, anywhere in the world, we will not hesitate to use everything at our disposal every weapon in our arsenal.”

“You misunderstand me,” Metcalfe interrupted.

“No, sir, you misunderstand me. Do not misinterpret the turmoil in Moscow for weakness.” He gestured toward the nuclear suitcase. “We are not weak, and we will stop at nothing to defend our interests!”

“I don’t doubt that, and we have no interest in testing your resolve. What I’m suggesting is that it’s not too late to back away from the precipice, and only you can do it. I’m proposing that you call the other members of your

Emergency Committee and tell them that you are withdrawing your support for their junta. Without you, their plans will shrivel up.”

“And then what, Ambassador Metcalfe? Go back to the chaos?”

“You can never go back. Everything has changed now. But you can help lead true, peaceful change. Listen to me, damn it: you cannot sit on a throne of bayonets.”

The man known as the Conductor only laughed. “You say you know my country. But what you don’t seem to know is that in Russia, the most dangerous thing is chaos. Disorder is the greatest threat to our welfare.”

“It will take enormous courage for you to back down,” Metcalfe persisted. “But if you do, you can count on our support. You will be protected, I promise you that. You have my word.”

“Your word!” scoffed Menilov. “Why should I believe you? We mean nothing to each other-we are as two submarines passing in the ocean.”

“So it would appear. And yet neither of us is in the business of trusting appearances. Let me tell you a story.”

“I think you have been doing nothing but telling me stories since you got here. And I’ve heard them all, Mr. Ambassador. I’ve heard them all.”

“With all respect,” said Metcalfe, “you haven’t heard this one.”